Writer's Cramp Entry

I look over the damage, and what do I see?
A few party streamers up high in that tree,
Dangling into a puddle of...oh my, oh gee,
Just why does this kind of thing happen to me?

When surveying the rest of the destruction, I make
The noise of someone who's had it fit to break,
I must confess, it isn't appropriate, as a step forward I take
To clean up an area the size of a lake.

I look at the ground, and instantly spot
A sixteen-year old, pretty broken old coffeepot,
A loaf of bread, completely coated in rot,
And nine wallets with keys that someone "forgot".

Yes, this party will take some cleaning,
All this junk in my yard is demeaning,
Although I will admit
That I won't bite the bit
I think my mind'll need a screening

The thing that I think you should know,
As I wander through my tale of woe,
The party wasn't mine;
'Twas my sister's (little swine)
But she kept my secrets, so quid pro quo

I suppose.